


Run Away, Run Away

by firea4



Category: Adventure Time
Genre: Bubbline, F/F, Feels and smut; smut and feels
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-30
Updated: 2015-08-30
Packaged: 2018-04-18 04:19:55
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4691852
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/firea4/pseuds/firea4
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There’s nothing healthy about this, but Marceline can never stay away. In which Princess Bubblegum is a princess.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Run Away, Run Away

**Author's Note:**

> Yeah, I'm sorry. I can't write happy things.

Marceline had had enough. Enough waiting around in the rafters for Bonnibel to finish official business, enough watching her flirt with the sons of visiting dignitaries in the name of diplomacy, enough hiding herself away during the day only to warm the princess’s bed at night. Marceline’s love was a desperate, jealous love, and there was only so much Bubblegum to go around. Responsibility demands sacrifice, Bonnibel liked to say. Somehow, though, the vampire always seemed to be the only one on the chopping block. 

So she left. 

She waited for Bonnie to return to her bedroom, late, from another evening meeting, then delivered her carefully practiced speech, and left.

And Bonnie let her go. 

That’s what keeps running through her head three nights later, as she paces the distance from her kitchen to the front door for the hundred thousandth time: Bonnie’s maddeningly serene face as she let Marceline turn around and float away. She could have at least pretended to be upset. Could have tried a little harder to hide the ghost of a smug smile on her lips. 

Well, fuck her. Marceline is a thousand years old, queen of the vampires, heir to the Nightosphere, and a rockstar besides. What does she need with candy princesses? 

Nothing, nothing, nothing. She beats the words into her head with each step, too worked up to float. 

She almost went back, the first night. Almost skipped town, the second. And now, three nights on, she’s fairly certain she’ll be pacing this track into the floor for the rest of her innumerable days. If she leaves the house she’ll be back up in that tower in an instant, and that’s just not going to happen. Not this time. 

Finn’s been by twice already, trying to draw her out with offers of video games and jaunts across the northern waste. He means well, she knows, but both times she scared him off with demon eyes and a mouth full of needled teeth. She’s not in the mood for company. 

Except. 

There’s a quiet knock at the front door and Marceline freezes mid-step, her agitated hair deflating around her shoulders. She jerks toward the door before she can think to stop herself.

Knock, knock. And in her head a litany of _don’t hope, don’t you hope, you don’t even want—shouldn’t even want this, shouldn’t want this. It’s not her anyways, never gonna be her, never—_

“Bonnie.” Marceline’s face goes blank with surprise, because it really is her, pink and perfect on the doorstep. 

“Marceline.” The name rolls off her tongue as it does only when Bonnibel is at her most insufferable, every syllable tight and precise like Marceline never says it herself. Insufferable. 

Marceline licks her lips nervously, still holding onto the door with one hand. “What are you doing here?” 

“I just came to see how you’re doing.” Without asking (because why would she ask? When has she ever asked?), Bonnie walks past Marceline into her living room, seems to consider sitting on the couch, then changes her mind and just stands in the center of the room. “So how are you doing?”

“Fine.” She sighs, closing the door and turning to Bonnie with her arms folded. Her initial surprise is turning to a simmering anger, because this isn’t how it’s supposed to go. Because Bonnie is supposed to apologize, but—oh, did she forget?—Princess Bonnibel Bubblegum does not apologize. “Isn’t it a little late for you to be out? Pep-But is probably worried sick.”

“I won’t be long. He can stand to worry for a while,” Bonnie says. She looks around, rubbing her arms up and down as if she’s cold. “Your place looks nice. I like the couch better over here.”

“It’s been like that for months.” Marceline had redecorated as she waited for Bonnie finish entertaining a gaggle of lovestruck delegates from two kingdoms over. The memory makes her shoulders hunch and she scowls. “What do you even want, Bonnie? You don’t have to check on me.” 

Bonnie doesn’t move for a moment, just stares intently at Marceline, trying to catch and keep her shifting gaze. “My tower is a little empty. I missed you,” she says.

Marceline’s hands open and close impotently at her sides, fingernails pressing restless crescent moons into her palms. She wants to believe her. Wants to so badly it’s a splintery knot in her core, but they’ve done this before and she should know better by now. 

Her hands clench into fists and she turns her back to hide the fact that her eyes are threatening angry tears. “Right. You don’t seem too cut up about it,” she says. 

“I’m here, aren’t I?” And Marceline jumps, because the words are spoken close to her ear, accompanied by the scent of bubblegum. Then hands are running up and down Marceline’s sides, sneaking up underneath the hem of her shirt and pressing cool fingers against her stomach. 

Marceline swallows hard as the princess’s hands climb higher. When she speaks her voice comes out hoarse, not her own. “I can’t do this anymore, Bonnie. We have to stop.”

“I don’t want to stop.” A kiss, below her ear. “Do you?”

Does she? Yes. No. Never and always. 

Meanwhile she’s letting Bonnibel lower them to the floor, where the princess leans over her, pressing one knee between Marceline’s legs. Her tongue darts out to run over the sharp points of Marceline’s teeth as her hands cup the vampire’s breasts beneath her shirt. 

Against her better judgment Marceline lets her hands drift to Bonnie’s hips and pulls her close. In her chest blooms something like relief, something like shame. 

Bonnie’s lips are soft, so soft, and if Marceline had a pulse it would be throbbing in the tips of her fingers, the back of her throat. It’s good; it’s everything; but it’s not enough, until Bonnie shifts a little, leaning up to let the pulse of her neck drift dangerously close to Marceline’s open mouth. 

“You need this, don’t you, Marcy?” Her voice drips syrup, so sweet it’ll make Marceline’s teeth ache if she gets any closer. And it aches, glob, it aches, but she nods anyways, feeling her fangs extend and tingle as her lips brush against Bonnie’s skin. Yes, yes, she needs it, has always and will always need to feel the red drain from the princess’s flesh and down her throat with the weight of Bonnie’s hips settled over her own. 

“Bonnie…” And her voice is a rasp, a whisper, a prayer. 

“Mmm. Bite me.”

She does, with a choked little moan, tilting her head forward to sink her teeth into Bonnie’s neck where it meets her shoulder. The princess stiffens at the initial sting, muscles going tight and then relaxing as the fangs work their peculiar magic. Marceline releases her only once Bonnie is trembling, then leans her head back and exhales slowly as the rush takes her, better than any drug (and she’d know: Marceline has tried them all). She’s thoroughly and hopelessly addicted to this one. 

When her teeth have quit tingling, she lurches up with a growl in her throat, grabbing Bonnie below the arms and flying them both up the ladder into her bedroom, where she throws her down on the bed. Bonnie’s clothes are off in another two seconds, and then Marceline is all over her. 

She bites and bites, and takes and takes and takes, everything the princess never gives. Patches of grey bloom over pastel skin—but never in places someone could see: Marceline knows the rules—while Marceline’s fingers dance insistent around Bonnie’s clit. 

Under her hands Marceline can feel Bonnie’s want in the way her chest rises and falls in little hitching breaths, in the way her hips stutter forward into Marceline’s palms. 

Wants. Her princess wants her. 

Bonnie doesn’t ask because she doesn’t need to. Marceline is already gripping the backs of her knees and lowering her head to kiss between Bonnie’s legs, her eyes closed in worshipful concentration. She huffs once, flicks a forked tongue over Bonnie’s swollen lips, and then dives in.

And that—that is just that, because the things that Marceline can do with her tongue are sinful. She’s relentless, and Bonnie comes with her legs clamped around Marceline’s head and her fingers fisted in the sheets. 

Her moans fade out into quiet pants and they’re still, for a moment, until Bonnie sits up and tugs on Marceline’s ears to pull her into a kiss. Soon Marceline is straddling Bonnie’s lap, moaning low in the back of her throat as Bonnie nibbles and sucks on the scars at her neck.

Cradling the back of Marceline’s head in one hand, Bonnie slips her other down the front of Marceline’s jeans; finds her hot and slick and waiting. 

It’s easy, because Marceline is riled, Bonnie’s color still racing in her veins, pulsing behind her eyes. Where Marceline was rough, Bonnie is all tenderness, caressing and coaxing and murmuring affection. Marceline unravels. She whimpers. Her head falls forward onto Bonnie’s shoulder and her fingers wind themselves into Bonnie’s hair, tugging, pulling, holding. 

“B-bonnie.” Marceline’s voice shakes along with the rest of her, teeth pressing dimples into her lip. “I l-love you. Love you.”

Bonnie smiles against Marceline’s skin, planting a kiss on her shoulder. “I know.”

For some reason that’s what pushes her over the edge. Bonnie holds her while she stiffens and cries out. It sounds like ecstasy. It sounds like a wound.

As she comes back to herself, her fingers unknotting their hold in bubblegum hair, Marceline hears Bonnie whisper, low and close in her ear, “Come home, Marcy. I’ve missed you.”

And she will. She always does.


End file.
